


A Conflict of Interests

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:36:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4308930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Prompt- Root has come back from the last couple missions worn down, and she hasn't been home with her wife for an hour when the Machine has a new number. Shaw convinces her to rest instead and puts her to bed. Once Root is asleep, Shaw demands the Machine call her to talk. Root wakes up to hear Shaw yell "I don't care you're just an AI! Root is MY WIFE and I love her, so get someone else to handle those relevant numbers instead before you kill her!" and then a quiet "I can't live without her"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Conflict of Interests

Root drudges her way through the apartment’s front door, feet like lead and eyelids holding up the weight of the world. She just finished another long day of helping numbers, and despite the fatigue she feels, there is an accomplished energy trickling through her veins- just enough to get her home. Kicking her shoes off, she checks the time wearily.  _Ten o'clock_. The earliest she’d made it back that week. It always seemed she was stumbling through the door anywhere between two and three, just to be rushed back out of it by five.

“Look who finally made it home at a decent hour.”

Taking her jacket off and hanging it on the coat wrack, Root can hear footsteps coming out from the kitchen, and a moment later, Root sees the voice’s owner.

“You almost beat me,” Shaw tells her, and Root smiles at the sight of her. She can feel her blinking slow, and leaves her eyes closed for a few seconds. She can feel the ground moving slightly under her as Shaw pads silently forward, and acknowledges the presence that stops just before her.

“Did I?” Root asks sleepily, peeling her eyes back open. She sees Shaw nod, sticking her hands in her pockets and leaning casually on the wall.

* * *

 

“Yeah, I just got in fifteen minutes ago,” Shaw informs her. “John dropped me off.” Root can feel her mind lapsing, her head drooping slowly forward before she jerks in back up, eyes widening with the feeling of falling. “Are you good?” Shaw asks, stepping even closer. Root can see every feature on her face- from the worried tilt of her brow to the gold flecks in her eyes, and smiles warmly.

“The best.” With that, she side steps around Shaw, heading for the kitchen. Upon entering, she swipes an apple off the table, and leans her elbows on the granite island as she munches away. Shaw follows her in, crossing her arms menacingly at the doorway. She looks as if she has something on her mind, but bites her tongue. “What is it?” Root asks.

“You look like Hell.” Root laughs in a burst of astonishment at the remark.

“The compliment  _every_  wife wants to come home to,” Root shoots back amiably, and Shaw rolls her eyes, walking forward and sitting herself on the counter top before Root. Root looks back down to her apple, unable to stand the genuine concern spilling from Shaw’s eyes.

She feels a thumb under her chin, and a second later she is eye-to-eye with Shaw once more. Shaw’s eyes scan her entire face, studying it entirely before speaking. “What did She have you do, run a  _marathon_?”

“Three.”

“Root, I’m serious,” Shaw tells her, and Root bites her lip to fight off a smile.

“How about this: you can chastise me  _all_  you want…  _after_  I take a shower. Sound fair?” Root asks. For a second, it looks as if Shaw is going to protest, but finally- with a sigh- drops her hand from Root’s chin and slips off the island. As she walks from the room, Root watches her go, taking in the sight of her until she’s drunk, then heads for the bedroom.

After a hot shower that melts all the knots in her muscles, Root is left with nothing more than the dull ache that comes with tiredness. She steps out of the shower, comes to the mirror, and wipes the steam from a portion of it. The vision that greets her sets a surprised jolt free in her heart.

Her eyes are dull, their usual color dimmed with an icy gray. Just beneath them are dark purple bruises in the shape of half moons. She hadn’t had a solid hour of sleep in weeks, and it shows. Her eyes are sunken in slightly, giving her nose razor-like angles and casting her irises back in shadows. Even her cheekbones are sharper than she remembers, the stress wearing her thin. Looking in the mirror, the face that she sees appears more like a tortured soul than a human.

_I do look like Hell._

She dresses quickly, averting her eyes from the mirror entirely, then travels out of the bathroom. Following the sound of the television, she finds Shaw on the couch. She sits at Shaw’s side, wrapping her arms around Shaw’s waist and resting her head on her shoulder. Almost at once, she can feel the hands of sleep reaching out at her, pulling her away.  _No_ , she thinks to herself, eyes closed.  _Just give me five more minutes._

“You need to get some sleep,” Shaw murmurs in her ear, and Root only snuggles in closer to her.

“But  _you’re_  not sleeping,” Root points out.

“I was waiting up for you.” A small, humored puff of air escapes Root at the words.

“You’re always doing that,” she tells Shaw, voice hushed from sleep. She thinks of all the late nights over the past two weeks, and how each night, two things remained constant. The lights were always on, and Shaw was always on the couch. Some nights she would be awake, others crashed and snoring, but she never ceased to be within seeing distance of the entrance whenever Root came home. Root had told her that she shouldn’t, that there was no reason for the both of them to be tired, but she never listened.

They sit there together for a time longer, but- just when Root thinks she’s won- Shaw stands; hands encasing Root to pull her along. Standing here, with Shaw, all of the day’s events roll like water off Root’s skin, and she can almost forget about the numbers and the work and everything else.

Until her phone rings.

Both women can hear it dancing along the kitchen counter, its screen a beacon as it lights a portion of the ceiling. Shaw turns her head that way at the second ring, but it cuts off abruptly, bathing them both in silence. However, as Shaw looks back to Root, she can tell Root isn’t sharing the peace and quiet.

Root’s face is distant, eyes scanning back and forth as if she’s reading something just before Shaw’s face. Then, she sighs. “Sure thing,” she says softly. Eyes coming back to focus, they hone in on Shaw, and she gives her an apologetic smile before slipping away. She heads back towards the entrance hallway with Shaw only a step behind.

“Where are you going?” Shaw asks as Root tugs her right boot back on.

“There’s a new number,” Root tells her.

“No.” Root looks up, confused by how aghast the word comes out. At seeing Shaw’s face, her shock only mounts at being able to read it so clearly on her face. As she slips on the other boot and stands back up, Shaw’s eyes become hardened with rage, and her words are steel. “No, you’re not going. No.”

“I have to,” Root tells her with a small slant to her lips, grabbing her jacket.

“You haven’t slept,” Shaw tells her bluntly. “You haven’t eaten-”

“I had an ap-”

“And you haven’t been home for more than a half hour. No way in  _Hell_.“ She stops, seeing the intensity of Shaw’s gaze. With one arm out and one arm in, she is torn between the two things she cares about most.

 _Sameen can forgive me,_ Root decides at last, _but I couldn’t forgive myself if I just let someone die._

"I’m sorry, Sam.” Root finishes putting on her jacket.

“Root, so help me, I will drag you by your  _ankles_.”  _It wouldn’t be hard,_ Root admits to herself, thinking back to her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t feel up to fighting a ladybug, let alone Shaw.

In the time Root submerges herself in thought, Shaw darts up, closing the space between them, and latches a hand onto each of Root’s wrists before pulling her back through the house. Root feels the irritation at being so easily moved by Shaw, and tries to give her arms a yank; however, it comes out more like a muscle spasm than a stride towards freedom.

“Shaw, let go,” Root commands. Shaw stops, tilts her head back and forth as if considering, then begins walking backwards once more.

“No.”

“Someone out there is in  _trouble_!” Root bursts, trying to make Shaw see the importance of the situation.

“Someone in  _here_  will be in trouble too if she doesn’t start listening to me,” Shaw counters, and Root narrows her eyes, fatigue making her easily agitated.

“I’m not a  _kid_ ,” she spits, but the harsh tone hits Shaw with the force of a cotton ball.

“No, but you  _are_  exhausted.” Shaw back tracks into the dark bedroom before whipping around fast enough to give Root a nauseous buzz in her head. Then, realizing she is the one stepping backwards now, pushes her entire weight against Shaw, struggling to make a break for it. In the darkness, Root can hear a devious chuckle.

“How do you expect to fight off whatever  _trouble’s_  out there if you can’t even fend  _me_  off?” She asks. Root thinks of how she doesn’t have an answer for it, nor a valid excuse, but shakes her head nonetheless.

“It doesn’t matter,” she responds, feeling the edge of the bed touch her calves. Her drowsiness subsides slightly, knowing this is her last chance to convince Shaw, and feels the ramble in the back of her throat. “It’s important, you don’t understand it’s  _important_ ; the night air will wake me up anyway; as soon as I get out there I’ll be fine; I’ll grab a snack on my way out; I won’t be long; the Machine  _needs_  me to do-”

Root is interrupted by the feeling of lips on hers, and every scrambled thought written in her brain gets wiped, leaving nothing but a blank page.

“Sometimes I wonder if there’s any other way to shut you up,” Shaw mutters good-naturedly as she pulls away. Root, in a euphoric daze, feels hands on her shoulders, then the feeling of a mattress beneath her. Shaw shimmies off Root’s jacket and tosses it to the ground, all the while Root gives her a lopsided grin.

“Feel free to find out whenever you’d like,” Root replies, her attempt at suggestiveness lost with a yawn. The hands press down on Root still, and she feels the cool comfort of her pillow. As soon as her head settles down on it, she knows she’ll never be able to lift it again.

Her eyes flutter closed, and she can feel herself slipping far away when a thought scribbles itself down in the blank space of her mind. She pulls her eyes open wide, although she is far too weakened to burst into a sitting position.

“The number,” she sputters out. “I need to-”

“I’ll call John and we’ll handle it. Okay?” Shaw asks, sitting down beside Root on the bed. She keeps one hand on Root’s shoulder, brining the other to brush a loose strand of Root’s hair from her face, allowing her hand to rest at Root’s cheek.

Root, tired and still slightly taken by the kiss, nods. With the invitation of sleep tempting her so, the fact that John is surely asleep; and that Shaw outright stated her distaste for the mission; and that she is the only one who knows the number and their identity all seem futile worries to Root now. Letting her eyelids trail back down and her body to give in, she loses herself.

_________\ If Your Number’s Up /_________

Shaw stays on the edge of the bed for a long while, straining to remain calm. However, no matter how hard she tries, she can’t help the anger that rises like bile in her throat. _How could She do this to her,_  Shaw fumes to herself, looking down at Root’s sleeping form. Root rolls to her side, leaning her cheek into Shaw’s hand with the smallest of smiles coming to her lips. For a moment, it seems the antidote to Shaw’s rage; however, it is only a short term remedy. With an inaudible sigh, Shaw takes one last look at Root’s face before easing herself away. Walking on silent feet, she pulls Root’s boots off and places them on the floor, then heads out to the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind her.

Swiping Root’s phone off the counter, Shaw continues towards the living room, sliding it unlocked. She isn’t planning on calling John Reese; on the contrary, she has something else in mind entirely. She finds the top unidentified caller on the recents list and hits it, all the while looking out the apartment window. Without a single ring, it goes right to a woman’s automated voice.

“Sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in service at this-”

“I  _know_  you’re there,” Shaw spits into the phone, gripping it tightly with white knuckles. “I  _know_  you’re listening. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You listen to everyone and everything? Well, we have some business to discuss, so I  _hope_  you’re ready to listen.”

“-ut the number you have dialed is not in ser-”

“I might do your damns,” Shaw says venomously, “but I can also make your life Hell.”

“-at this time. Goodbye.” The line dies, and Shaw- furious- throws the phone down on the couch before heading to a door at the end of the wall. Opening it, she steps into a large closet filled with old coats and dust-topped shoes. She reaches past it all until her hands encircle a large rifle, and she pulls it from the wrack bolted to the wall. Slipping her hand into the nearest coat pocket, she retrieves a silencer, then heads back out to the window. Screwing the silencer on, she leans the gun across the wall before pulling open the window. The night’s cool air greets her face, and all is quiet in the pitch black surroundings. The sky is thick like an ebony blanket as Shaw rests the rifle on the window sill, peering through the scope.

Through the darkness, she lines up a white transformer in the crosshairs. “Last chance,” she whispers devilishly to herself. When nothing happens, she fires.

There is a soft ’ _pew_!’ as the silencer does its job, and the box erupts in a volcano of sparks and zapping electrical noises. Across the street, lights in neighboring apartments flicker into powerless submission, and every security camera becomes motionless. Not a single bank, business, or store front have any feeds; every red blinking light giving into the darkness. Dead.

The phone rings.

A smug smirk slides onto Shaw’s face as she retrieves Root’s cellphone from the couch. Placing it to her ear, she wedges it between her cheek and shoulder. “So glad you could reconsider.”

“Dan-G-rose,” a strand of patchwork, automated tones reaches Shaw’s ear as she breaks down the rifle, stowing it away.

“No, dangerous is what you’re putting  _Root_  through,” Shaw snarls, feeling a new, stronger wave of anger swallow her up.

“Not bad.”

“Not  _bad_?” Shaw repeats incredulously. “Not  _bad_? Maybe not for a- for a  _robot_  like you- but eleven numbers in  _one_  week? That’s  _bad_.” Shaw closes the window, then holds the phone in her hand, waiting for a response.

“There is a number out-side that is in true-bell.” Shaw wonders why something with such a vast network is unable to find sufficient words, but decides that now is not the time for speculation.

“Yeah, I got that,” Shaw says in annoyance, tapping her foot. “But see, the thing is, you have  _four other people_  on your team. Start acting like it.”

“Trust me,” the tones reply.

“Trust  _you_?” She belts out, then- needing to keep quiet- drops her tone to a furious hiss. “Trust  _me_! Trust  _John_ ; trust  _Lionel_! We can all do this job, you’re just not giving us the chance.”

“It is more calm-plick-eight-Ed than that,” the Machine replies. Then, the noise in the receiver changes. The white noise in the background shifts to something much quieter, and again once more to a different location.

“ _Really_?” Shaw asks with snarky skepticism. “Because it all seems rather elementary to me.”

“The numbers are import-ant to Root.”

“Yeah, well,  _Root_  is important to  _me_ ,” Shaw spits, verging livid.

“Root is import-ant to me too,” the Machine replies before another shift change takes place. She continues. “But every-one is of equal import-ants.”

“Then you have some priorities to straighten out.”

“Ness-is-Ari evils.”

“ _Bullshit_.” For a moment, there is silence. As soon as Shaw thinks the Machine has left her stranded, there is a reply.

“I am sorry.” With those words, something in Shaw snaps.

________\ We’ll Find You /________

“I DON’T CARE!”

The Earth-rattling bellow jars Root from sleep, and she sits up straight in bed, taking in a sharp breath. Her eyes are open wide as she listens with acutely tuned ears; waiting. She wonders if it was all in her head, and just when she believes it, she hears another wave of shrieking reach her.

“YOU’RE JUST AN ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE!”

Alert now, Root springs up from bed. However, her feet tangle in something on the floor, and she suppresses a yelp as she drops like a stone to the floor. For a moment, she is silent, making sure she hears no approaching footsteps, all the while rubbing her smarting ankle. Feeling around in the dark, her fingers graze the leather of her jacket, and she frowns.  _When did I take this off?_  She wonders, but has no answer. She doesn’t even remember coming to bed at all.

None the less, curiosity burning a hole in her, she eases the door silently open. At first, the brightness of the apartment blinds her, and she is forced to shield her eyes with one hand. Yet, after a few seconds, her eyes adjust, revealing to her Shaw’s rigid form at the far end of the apartment.

Shaw turns, and Root ducks behind the kitchen’s island, biting her lip in hopes that she hasn’t been caught. However, looking at Shaw’s eyes, she can see the pure, concentrated fury in Shaw’s eyes, and it clouds her vision entirely. Her face is stiff- tense with loathing- but it doesn’t even begin to express the undiluted rage in her voice.

“Root is my  _wife_  and I love her, so get someone  _else_  to handle those relevant numbers before you  _kill_  her!” Shaw shouts, shaking the apartment on its foundations. Root creeps closer, pressing herself to each wall and sneaking behind anything that can conceal her, until she is at the dividing wall between the kitchen and living room. Holding her breath, Root peers over to see Shaw giving a short pace back and forth before the window, one hand holding a phone; the other holding her head.

Root tries to hear the person on the other end, to no avail.  _Who could make Shaw so angry?_  Root asks, then quickly rephrases.  _Who could piss her off so royally?_  But then, going through the screaming once more, something harrowing hits her.  _‘You’re just an Artificial Intelligence.’_

Not some _one_. Some _thing._

Root can feel the room spin underneath of her and clutches the wall for balance. For a long while, Shaw remains silent; but then, in a voice so soft Root questions if she even heard it all all, Shaw whispers,

“I can’t live without her.” There is no rage in the words. There is no anger or spite or antipathy. There is only pain. Pain that Root can feel in her own heart as it shatters into a thousand pieces in her chest. Shaw brings the phone to her eyes, looks at the screen briefly, then tosses it lightly onto the coffee table before sitting on the armrest of the sofa, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as she rests her elbow on her leg. Slowly, Root slides out of hiding.

“What was that about?” She asks, voice desperately loud in the newfound silence. Shaw looks up with tired eyes, and sighs.

“It was- it- nothing. I’m sorry I woke you up,” Shaw tells her, dropping into a cushion and leaning back into it with exasperation. Root comes to sit at her side, and Shaw rests her head on Root’s shoulder, closing her weary eyes.

“Did She call you?” Root questions, looking down towards her hands.

“You could say that.”

“What did She want to talk about?”

“Nothing.” There is a silence, and Shaw must be able to sense Root’s dissatisfaction with the answer, for she elaborates. “Nothing that can’t wait until morning.” Root slides her hand over to Shaw’s, concentrating on them as she intertwines their fingers slowly.

“What were you screaming for?” Root asks her softly, and another sigh escapes Shaw, only this one is more tired than frustrated.

“I requested some vacation days,” Shaw informs her.

“And what did She say?”

“They’re not in our contracts.” Root gives a silent laugh at the response, watching their hands a moment more; she places her head atop Shaw’s, closing her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Root asks, to no response. “Sameen?” She hears the sound of heavy breathing in her ear, and the dead weight of Shaw’s head on her shoulder as they both lean back into the couch, and smiles. Root rolls her eyes- or- she would have, if she hadn’t fallen asleep too.


End file.
